Long Live
by FiferRose
Summary: Eames's son inquires about a picture of Eames with a strange man he doesn't know, a man named Arthur Sims, with whom Eames worked to take dreamsharing from an underground activity to a widely used military training program, growing close along the way.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:**

- Hey, remember me? :D Sorry if you don't. I disappeared! Life is insane. But, I'm back now. Woot!  
>- And, I'm back bearing gifts! I'm a bit rusty, but I missed writing Arthur and Eames incredibly badly. So, have this AU.<br>- Inspired by the Taylor Swift song "Long Live".  
>- As always, reviews are love.<p>

* * *

><p><strong><em>"Will you take a moment, promise me this:<br>That you'll stand by me forever?  
>But if, God forbid, fate should step in<br>And force us into a goodbye,  
>If you have children some day,<br>When they point to the pictures,  
>Please tell them my name.<br>Tell them how the crowds went_**_ **wild."**_**_  
><em>_-_** Taylor Swift, "Long Live"

* * *

><p>"Daddy?"<p>

"Yes, darling?"

"Who is in this picture with you?" the small boy asks, grubby fingers pointing to the shelf above the fireplace.

"Which photo?" Eames asks, eyes still skimming his daily copy of the New York Times. Normally, newspapers are morning fare. However, when you've a four year-old son running amuck in your home, such niceties as morning reading time are lost in the fray. Sometimes, on days like today, reading time can reappear in the middle of the evening. Eames takes advantage of every minute he gets.

"This one here. Look, Daddy. This one!"

"Alright, alright. I'm coming."

Eames folds the newspaper and leaves it on the couch as he stands. He walks over to the dark fireplace and sweeps the little boy into his arms.

"Which one, poppet?"

The boy's fingers reach out and Eames takes a step closer to the mantle, obliging him. He has the feeling he already knows exactly which photograph the boy's hand will light upon.

"This one here, beside this medal. Who is that?"

Eames is correct. He sighs.

"Haven't I told you that story before?"

"I can't remember," the boy says, one stubby finger poking his chin.

Eames smiles. He must have told this story a thousand times in the last year. So, he figures, once more cannot hurt.

"Tell you what. It's almost bedtime. So, you go find some pajamas and gather your bath toys, and I shall tell you the story as we get ready for bed."

"But I don't want to go to bed yet. It's so early."

"Well, when you're as old as Daddy, you don't enjoy staying up so late."

"But I'm _not_ as old as you!"

"Well, when you're as young as you are, you don't have a choice. Besides, do you want to hear the story or not?"

"Alright. I'll go," the boy sighs, sounding forty rather than four.

Eames sets the boy on his feet and pats his butt as he runs down the hall.

"Be careful running!" Eames calls, and the pitter-patter of little feet slows considerably, for the moment.

Minutes later, his son appears at the mouth of the hallway.

"All set?" Eames asks.

"All set, Daddy."

"Alright, good. Let's go. Shall we race?"

"Aw, but I'm tired, Daddy."

"Oh, fine."

"Just kidding!" the little boy shouts, and turns on his heel to run back down the hall. Eames follows, using his height to his advantage, and catches up with the boy just as he reaches the bathroom door. Before the boy can cross the threshold, Eames has him off the ground once more, holding him with one arm and using the other hand to tickle the boy.

"Oy, you little cheater! So mean to your old man!"

The boy giggles in reply, squirming crazily until Eames finally sets him down.

"Alright. Let's get this over with, shall we?"

"Can you start the story now?"

"I suppose so."

Eames walks over and kneels beside the bathtub, reaching to turn the water on and waiting for it to warm. When it finally does, he adds bubble bath to the running water and motions for the boy to come and get it.

"Did you put your dirty clothes in the hamper?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good boy. Now, get your toys and come get in."

He lifts the boy into the tub and then settles back onto his knees beside the bath, watching as the boy turns his toy dinosaur into a bubble-eating menace.

"So, story time, eh? Hmm."

The boy just looks at him with expectant eyes.

"Okay. Well, about eight or nine years ago-"

"Before you bought me?"

Eames laughs aloud at that statement. Kids say the darnedest things.

"Well, I didn't _buy_ you, but yes. Before you were mine, before you were even born, Daddy worked with a very special group of people…"

* * *

><p>"Sean Eames, at your service," Eames says as he outstretches his hand.<p>

"Nice to finally meet you in person, Mr. Eames. I understand that you're something of an expert in the field?" the man asks, dropping Eames's hand as he drops his voice.

"Hardly. Just a man with lots of time on his hands. I hear you're the one that's looking to make this big, Mr. Cobb" Eames counters, gesturing to the table beside the men. At Cobb's nod, he unbuttons his jacket and takes a seat, Cobb following suit.

"You've heard correctly," the blonde man says as he motions for the waiter. "And call me Dom. Are you hungry? Thirsty?"

"A cup of tea would be lovely right about now, Dom."

"Yes, sir?" the waiter asks as he approaches.

"My friend here will have a hot cup of tea, and I'll have another of my usual."

"Of course."

"Thanks."

The waiter departs and Cobb speaks again.

"How'd you get into this business, Mr. Eames?"

"You meet all sorts of people here and there. I followed a lover to Mombassa many moons ago. Turned out to be a bust, romantically, but I met a fellow named Yusuf who knew someone who knew someone that had heard of these experiments going on with dreaming. Couldn't keep my nose out of trouble, and, well, here we are."

"Do you still do any work with this Mombassa crew?"

"Oh, no no no. Just Yusuf, but he's out of the dreamsharing bits. He just tinkers with the sleeping compounds these days. That group turned out to be nothing but bad news. But, once you've experienced something like shared dreaming, you can't just walk away from it and be satisfied with the world around you."

"Which is why you're here with me now, I'm guessing."

Eames nods as the waiter approaches with their drinks, says his "thank you" as his tea is sat on the table, and then frowns, eyebrows furrowed, as Cobb's drink is sat on the table.

"Thank you," Cobb says to the waiter, and then he catches the look on Eames's face. "What?" he asks, somewhat defensively.

"Nothing," Eames sputters. "Only… uh, is that a Bloody Mary?"

Cobb blushes slightly, but answers with aggravation in his voice.

"Yes, it is. Why do you ask?"

Eames is at a loss for words.

"No reason."

Cobb sighs.

"I know. It isn't the manliest drink. My wife, Mal, she made me try one once. Now I just can't stop. This one's virgin, though. Bad form to drink during a job interview."

Afraid he'll laugh if the conversation continues, Eames changes the subject, though he can't help the slight chuckle in his voice.

"I suppose it would be for a job like this. Speaking of which, what is it exactly you want me for?"

"Well, right now, dreamsharing is relatively underground. There are a few operational centers that are doing contracted work for certain corporations, but nobody's making headlines yet. The American military is looking to change that. They want turn dreamsharing into a viable training tool. They want widespread accessibility for the armed forces. That's where we would come in."

"We?"

"Myself, a military-appointed chemist, a couple of glorified test subjects from the Green Berets, and you, if you're interested. I'd need a partner of sorts, somebody with a lot of experience in the dream world. We're basically being asked to show them the ropes and pass on what we know." He pauses for a sip of his drink and then continues, leaning conspiratorially forward, "But, between you and me, I see this as a chance to see what we can do with dreamsharing when we've got a military-sized budget behind us. The possibilities…" Cobb trails off, gesturing vaguely to the world around them.

"They're endless," Eames finishes. Cobb nods and leans back into his seat. Eames is quiet for a moment, sipping his tea. Then, it's his turn to lean forward as he places his cup back on its saucer.

"Well, I don't mean to sound overeager, Mr. Cobb, but you can certainly count me in."

* * *

><p>He smiles.<p>

"So then you started working again."

"I did."

"But Uncle Cobb isn't the man in that photo with you."

"Not that particular photo, no," Eames answers as he scrubs the boy's hair.

"So who is, then?"

"I'm getting there. Patience is a virtue, you know."

"What's a _vuh-choo_?" the boy asks and Eames laughs quietly.

"Never mind. Close your eyes. Your mouth, too."

Eames pours water over the boy's head, rinsing the suds from his hair and face.

"Alright, all done."

The boy stands up, and Eames rinses the bubbles from the rest of his son's body before grabbing a towel and wrapping the boy up in it, careful to not let the edges fall into the water. He lifts the boy from the tub and places him on his lap on the closed toilet.

"Let's dry you off and get you dressed."

"Finish the story."

Eames says nothing, but shoots the boy a look.

Chagrined, he tries again, "Finish the story, please?"

* * *

><p>"Robert Gates, gentlemen, but you can call me Bob," the smiling man says as he shakes the hand of each member of Cobb's team and salutes the four soldiers, including Robinson the chemist, standing alongside the back wall of the room.<p>

"At ease, gentlemen. Take a seat," he gestures for everyone in the room to sit around the table in front of them.

Eames sits in the centermost chair he can find, Cobb to his immediate right and the chemist, Robinson, forced to take next seat over. The seat to Eames's left is empty at first, but then is quickly occupied by one of the soldiers. Sims, his uniform reads, and Eames can't help but give the man a lingering once-over. His garrison uniform is meticulous, from his neatly laced boots to the floppy green beret covering the short, black hair atop his head. He stares straight forward, apparently listening to Mr. Gates's rambling. It isn't until Sims turns to return Eames's gaze that Eames notices how quiet the room has become. Cobb nudges an elbow into Eames's bicep, and Eames turns, nearly in slow motion, to see the waiting look on Gates's face.

"I'm sorry. What was the question?"

From the corner of his eye, Eames sees Sims hiding a smile.

* * *

><p>"Why weren't you paying attention, Daddy? You always tell me how paying attention is the most important thing you can do for someone."<p>

"Are you going to be busting my bum all night long, little man?"

"Sorry."

"Sometimes I think you're too smart for your own good, and you are definitely too smart for my good."

Eames swings the now dressed boy to the floor.

"Alright, run along and hop in bed. I'll be there in a moment."

The boy runs, little feet pounding against the hardwood floor of the hallway. Eames rolls up a shirtsleeve and reaches into the tepid water of the tub, feeling for the stopper. He pulls it and places the piece of rubber on the tub's edge, beside a plastic dinosaur that is still vomiting fruity-smelling soap bubbles.

Eames then takes a seat back on the lid of the closed toilet. He pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger, and then lets out a long, low sigh. Some stories aren't so easy to tell, no matter how many times you've recanted them.

He stands, hangs the damp towel back on its rack, and then flips the light switch as he heads out the door and to the boy's room. When he gets there, he sees his son in bed, covers pulled up to his armpits, tiny hands folded together on top of his stomach.

"All set, Dad."

"I can see that. I think you've set a new world speed record," he says, and the boy beams.

Eames takes a seat on the edge of the bed, careful not to sit on the boy's legs.

"Where were we?" he asks.

"The part where you got in trouble for not paying attention."

"I didn't get in _trouble_," Eames says, slightly defensive.

"If you say so," the boy replies, cheeky as ever, something he learned from his Pop.

"Alright, alright. So, we finished our meeting, and then it was time to start doing the real work…."


	2. Chapter 2

**_"And the cynics were outraged,  
><em>****_Screaming this is absurd,  
><em>****_'Cause for a moment, a band of thieves  
><em>****_In ripped up jeans got to rule the world.  
><em>****_Long live the walls we crashed through.  
><em>****_How the kingdom lights shined just for me and you.  
><em>****_I was screaming, 'Long live all the magic we made',  
><em>****_And bring on all the pretenders; _****_I'm not afraid.  
><em>******- Taylor Swift, "Long Live"

* * *

><p>"Eames!"<p>

"Yes, Arthur, darling?"

"I'm not your darling, Eames. And I thought you said you'd figured out the approach we needed to take in order to make the subjects create specific projections when we need them?"

"Well, 'figured out' may have been a bit of an exaggeration. But, I'm working on it."

"Well, work faster."

"Yes, Lieutenant Sims, sir," Eames says, clicking his heels together and saluting as he does so. This, at least, earns a laugh from Arthur.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Eames. I don't mean to snap. It's just been a very long day in a very bad week." He pauses, then looks down at his desk as he says, "I don't know what we'd do without you."

Eames certainly takes note that Arthur says 'we', and not, 'I don't know what _I_ would do without you,' but Eames will take what he can get, because he's 75% certain that he is at least 99% in love with the man in front of him.

"I know, darling. But, things will get better. I promise."

Earlier in the week, they had begun medicinal trials, mixing drugs under the chemist's guidance and Arthur's suggestions. At first, things worked wonderfully. Arthur really was onto something. But, it took only one experiment gone wrong to lead to Richard Swift's overexposure to the dream world. When Arthur Sims's fellow Green Beret came to, the light behind his eyes was gone. Whatever had made the man Richard had long since left the building, lost in some dark recess of creation. Swift's co-pilot and best friend, Jackson Russo, was nearly homicidal in his rage. Security guards, a permanent fixture at the warehouse since the beginning, carried the man out shortly before base medics carried Swift out into the waiting ambulance.

The entire team was suddenly struck by the delicacy of this situation, and not everyone weathered the revelation well. In the end, only Eames, Sims, Dom, and one of Sims's fellow Berets, Sholtz, stayed. Sholtz had garnered enough experience working with Robinson that he was able to handle the chemist's job. Arthur was too shaken up to prepare the compounds from that day on.

They made a motley, guilt-ridden crew, but they managed to scrape by, deadlines set by 'The Powers That Be' giving them no choice. The trials continued without incident, and soon, military training through dreamsharing was ready to be tested on a larger scale.

As peachy as things were beginning to look, though, not all was well. Certain fundamentalist groups had objections to such science as dream-sharing. 'Work of the devil and his demons' was the common accusation. Mostly, the extreme Christians were nothing more than a slight annoyance. Military regulations kept their protests off the base.

What _was_ truly worrisome, though, was the news that the group may have been in danger in other ways. Competing militaries were eager to get their hands on such a thing as dream invasion. One mole had been dealt with already. So far, no new information seemed to have been leaked. But, the threat was never so lessened that any one of the people involved could afford to lower his or her guard. Too much was at risk, personally and otherwise, and they all knew it, no matter how hard they pretended not to.

* * *

><p>"So, when do you get to the part about the picture, Daddy?"<p>

"Soon. Why? Getting sleepy, are we?"

"No," the boy replied, just before yawning.

"Obviously. So, shall I skip the boring parts, then?"

"I think that's a good idea."

* * *

><p>Two years after their initial meeting, Eames and Sims had become more than simply comrades. Throughout every glitch, they'd always turned to the other, and explanations of 'brotherly love' and friendship didn't hold much water when Eames opened him mouth and flirtatious things came out. He was still obviously in love, and everyone knew it, including Arthur.<p>

It was not something they spoke of, though, not unless there were copious amounts of alcohol involved. One particularly successful day led to a night of celebration. They had earned it, that was for damn sure, and Eames reminded himself of that fact as he and Arthur lay side by side on the hood of Arthur's small, black Saab, passing between them a bottle of cheap scotch to keep warm in the mid-November evening air. Both feeling fairly buzzed, their conversation flows freely, covering subjects from family to food to sex, and everything in between.

Suddenly, though, Arthur says something that makes Eames stop in his tracks as he feels his own heart stopping and the smile sliding off his face.

"We could never be together, you and I."

For a moment, Eames is stunned into silence, his head swimming from the alcohol and the honesty.

Then, "Whatever made you bring that up, Arthur?" he quietly asks.

"Just-," he pauses and takes a sip from the bottle. "Just everything, Eames." He sits up, brings his knees to his chest, and wraps his arms around his legs. Eames remains lying on the car, afraid to move for fear he'll topple to the ground, the cold and the shock rendering him clumsy, if not completely immobile. "I've seen the way you look at me, Eames. I- I can feel it, you know?"

"What makes you so certain that I feel anything at all for you? Maybe that's just how I look at people."

Arthur sighs quietly, "We both know that isn't true. I can tell, Eames."

Here, Eames begins to become exasperated. How dare this man make such assumptions- even if they are true? Better yet, how dare he bring them up only to crush Eames in such a raw way? He sits up, eager to confront Arthur with this.

"What gives you the right to say something like that, Arthur? To bring something like that up and then just-"

"Because I feel the same way about you, Eames," Arthur interjects.

Eames can hardly bring himself to argue, and he knows that if he tries, he will simply end up stuttering gracelessly, an action that would hardly help his situation. When he does finally speak, it is only to ask a simple question.

"How long?"

"Have I known? Or how long have I felt the same?"

"Either. Both."

Arthur laughs softly, remembering. Eames is now propped up on one elbow, stomach twisting as he waits to hear the answer.

"I figured it out right after the incident with Russo."

Eames cringed at the mention of that particular day. Swift's partner, Russo, had long since left wherever security had escorted him to on the night of Swift's accident. He was back, and he was not happy with the team that he felt had wronged him and his partner so grievously….

_It was late, a year nearly to the day of when things had gone so terribly wrong with Swift. Eames and Arthur were the only two left at work, Dom and Sholtz already having knocked off to go home to their respective significant others. The remaining two were talking aimlessly as they scoured notes and reorganized precariously leaning stacks of paper._

_Suddenly, a noise echoing from the back of the warehouse caused Arthur to start and rise from his seat. Eames watched the man go rigid, listening hard for a second sound that would never come. After a moment's silence, Eames motioned for the man to sit back down._

"_This place creaks more than my Great-aunt Martha. I'm sure it was nothing."_

_Arthur, as always, looked less than satisfied with this answer, yet he returned to his seat and to his work. The place was silent for the next hour or so, until Eames stood from his seat, reached above his head, and turned side to side, relishing the satisfying cracks of the vertebrae in his back._

"_I need some coffee before I collapse right here atop the paperwork. Want anything from our lovely little break room?"_

"_No, thanks, Eames. I'm okay for now."_

_Eames walked from the desk and toward the so-called 'break room', which was a glorified former janitorial closet. Still, it served its purpose well enough, Eames supposed as he groped along the wall for the light switch. As he stepped to the coffee maker and reached to the cabinet above for a fresh filter (damn Cobb and his lazy coffee-making ways), a noise sounded from the main work area. Eames ignored the sound, assuming it was just Arthur stretching and moving about. Then, there was what sounded like a muffled shout. Eames's first instinct was to drop the box of coffee filters and run more quickly than he ever had before. Panic, however, would only worsen the situation, he was sure._

_ Quietly, he placed the box on the counter in front of him and reached for his gun…._

_ The gun that he had left at his desk…. Locked in the bottom drawer, where it stayed until time to leave each night._

_ Shite._

"I was scared shitless, you know?" Eames says, surfacing for air from the memory. The cool fall air bites through his thin tweed jacket, and he reclaims the quickly-emptying bottle of scotch from Arthur's hands.

"I would've been, too, in your shoes. Problem is, I was the one with the gun at my head at one point. So, I was scared shitless for my own reasons. They teach you not to panic, but it's difficult when you've been out in the relatively civilian world for some time. Paperwork makes you lose your edge."

"I won't argue there. But, we made it out alive and more or less okay. Just like we do everything else."

It turned out that Eames's gun probably would have been useless even if it were in his hands. He crept into the main room quietly to find Arthur pinning Jackson Russo to the floor, one gun lying three meters away, another in Arthur's hand, pressed to Jack's temple.

_"__Am __I __interrupting __something?__" E__ames __ventured, __his __even __voice __disguising __the __tumult __he __actually __felt. __His __voice __carried __easily __to __the __two __men __panting __and __still __struggling __with __one __another __on __the __cold __concrete._

_ "Russo decided to drop in and surprise us. Isn't that lovely?" Arthur forced out between gritted teeth. _

_ "Wonderful," Eames replied as he swept the gun from the floor, removed the magazine, and ejected the bullet from the barrel, pocketing the ammunition and placing the semi-automatic on the table to his right._

_ "Did he come alone?" _

_ "Yep. But, he won't be alone for long. Nifty, those silent alarms."_

_ "I thought they only used those in silly heist movies."_

_ "Our lives practically are silly heist movies, Mr. Eames," and then Arthur brought his gun down on Russo's head, knocking him out as the base police began pounding at the door._

"Wouldn't you know that my hands were shaking nearly the whole time?" Eames says. He pulls his jacket tighter and resumes his original position lying on the hood of the car.

"Mine shook after. As soon as they carted him out."

"The moment I knew something was off, my stomach dropped. Don't get me wrong, I know you can take care of yourself. But, the thought that something, _anything_, might have happened to you…."

"Yeah, I know. You said as much after it happened. If the situation had been reversed, I would have been just as scared. That's how I knew that your endless flirting was more than you being a pain in the ass. If it had been Sholtz or even Dom in danger, I think I would have been able to handle it. Scared, yes, but still rational. If it had been you…"

Eames does not reply—can't reply. Instead, he takes another swig of scotch and stares up at the stars above. The silence stretches on until Eames breaks it again.

"I read something once, in a book, about moments like these. Perfect scenery, perfect company. About how, in those moments, one feels _infinite_."

That's all Eames can come up with, and it's shite, but Arthur goes along with it.

"Do you feel infinite right now, Sean?" Eames can hear the smile in Arthur's voice, but at least the man is humoring him. Neither of them wants to linger on the thought of harm coming to the other.

Eames pauses before answering, wondering whether to go with the serious answer or the lighthearted answer. One will cause him and Arthur heartache now, one will cause the heartache later. He chooses the latter, and somehow forces sunshine into his tone.

"Well, I did until you absolutely crushed my hopes and dreams with your pre-emptive rejection of me."

But Arthur does not laugh, merely lays back down, head against Eames's.

"Call me selfish, but I value your life more than your companionship."

"We shouldn't have to choose," Eames replies, and there's more sadness in his voice than he would like to admit to.

Arthur says nothing, just grasps Eames's hand, and they lie there until the night becomes too cold to stand. When it finally does, they slide off the hood and begin stretching stiff backs and legs and necks. Eames speaks once more.

"You never answered the second question, darling."

"What's that?" Arthur asks, sliding into the driver's seat, sliding and turning the key in the ignition, sending freezing air blowing through the car.

"How long have you felt the same?"

Arthur busies himself adjusting the vents so that they point upward until the air becomes warm. He does not meet Eames's eyes, but he answers the question anyway.

"Since day one, Mr. Eames. Pretty much since day one."


	3. Chapter 3

"_**I still remember this moment in the back of my mind,  
>The time we stood with our shaking hands;<br>The crowds in stands went wild.  
>We were the kings and the queens, and they read off our names,<br>The night you danced like you knew our lives would never be the same.  
>You held your head like a hero on a history book page.<br>It was the end of a decade, but the start of an age.  
>Long live the walls we crashed through,<br>While the kingdom lights shined just for me and you."  
><strong>_- Taylor Swift, "Long Live"

* * *

><p>"So, did you marry him, Daddy?"<p>

The question shakes Eames from his reverie.

"What? No, poppet."

"Why not? You loved each other," Eames's son replies. He twists in his bed and props an elbow beneath his head, wrapping the racecar sheets around his small frame in the process.

"I wish it were that simple, sweetie, but it isn't. Things don't always work out. It was too dangerous for us to be together then. Too big of a distraction."

"Then why not later?"

Eames sighs heavily. The end of the story has always been the hardest to tell.

* * *

><p>A year had passed since Arthur and Eames threw their cards on the table in a conversation that hurt, but could not be avoided. A year of slightly lingering touches and glances, a year of sad acceptance of a relationship that wasn't possible. Too many risks if the men grew close, and not just emotional risks. Too much was at stake after all this time.<p>

Still, once the team's job was complete, Eames wondered if there was a chance for them. The prospect kept him on edge as he drove the team to Fischer Hall, a banquet hall and auditorium about an hour's drive from the base.

"I still don't understand why we couldn't take _my _car," Arthur says from the passenger seat. Eames glances away from the road and towards Arthur for a split second.

"We would hardly all fit, what with half your wardrobe hanging in the back. Besides,what do you have against my baby?" Eames asks, fiddling with the radio so that he can hear Arthur over Mal and Dom chattering excitedly in the backseat.

"This isn't a baby, Eames. This is the… the steroid-enhanced _teenaged linebacker_ of cars, okay?"

"No, no, no, darling. The Range Rover Evoque is much too classy for what you Yanks call football," Eames says, smiling. He ponders, "Maybe it's more like a Rugby player: rough, but still sophisticated."

"Okay, rugby. But it's still huge. What's the mileage for this thing, anyway?" Arthur asks as he fiddles with the vent, attempting to avert the air blowing in his face.

"Don't ask. Are you cold?" At Arthur's nod, Eames reaches over and closes off Arthur's vent.

"That bad, huh? You know, my Prius gets almost fifty miles per gallon."

"Yes, but, darling, it's a _Prius_," Eames replies as he signals and waits to make a left turn into the parking lot. He notices a small, silver car behind them, also waiting to turn, and thanks his lucky stars that they're not the only ones running a little late.

"Remind me why we're doing this again, Dom," Arthur says over his shoulder, rolling his eyes but otherwise ignoring Eames's last remark.

"Gates likes parties. We've just succeeded in bringing dream-sharing to the military masses…. I guess he sees that as a pretty good excuse for a get-together."

"But can't we have a party without getting up on stage?"

"Darling, you look fantastic, you don't even have to speak, and we'll likely be up there for five minutes, tops. You've nothing to worry about, I promise."

"Yeah, what Eames said," Dom seconds.

"And you, Mal? You're okay with this?" Arthur asks, once he realizes that he won't be getting anywhere with Dom or Eames.

"Arthur, come now. You've earned some recognition, don't you think so?" Her slender arm reaches around Arthur's headrest and her hand comes to rest on his shoulder. "You'll be fine," she says, squeezing Arthur's shoulder before unbuckling her seatbelt and climbing out of the car to stand in front of the steps where Eames has stopped.

"Park quickly, Eames. We'll wait for you backstage," Dom says as he follows Mal, closes the door behind them, and begins leading Mal up the faded marble steps.

Arthur, finally through grumbling, turns back to Eames as he unbuckles his seat belt.

"Do I really look fantastic?" he asks quietly.

"Yes, Lieutenant Sims. More so than usual, in fact. And that's really saying something."

Eames reaches over to straighten a button on Arthur's lapel and Arthur takes his hand without warning. Eames's heart jumps to his throat, but he manages what he hopes is a happy, if slightly indifferent, expression.

"Just don't let me fall on my ass in front of a thousand people, okay?"

"Not even in front of two people, Arthur. I promise."

He gives Arthur's hand a reassuring squeeze and places a kiss on the man's knuckles before either of them has even realized what Eames has done. Embarrassed, Eames drops Arthur's both hand and his gaze and coughs.

"You'd best be on your way, then. I'll be there as soon as I can find a space."

Arthur, a blush rising on his cheeks, pulls down the shade and flips open the small mirror, adjusting his beret in the reflection. Satisfied with what he sees, he closes the mirror and folds the shade back to the roof.

"Thank you, Sean," he says without meeting Eames's eyes. Then he hops out of the car and up the stairs into Fischer Hall.

* * *

><p>"A party? Just for you?"<p>

"Yep, little man. Just for us," Eames replies.

"Was it fun?" the boy asks.

"Mostly."

"Did you really get to go on stage?"

"Yes, I did. In front of hundreds of people. All of them looking _right_ at _me_," Eames says dramatically, widening his eyes and placing his face closer to the boy, who giggles and flops away, untucking the blanket at the foot of his bed.

"And then what happened?"

"Well…."

* * *

><p>Eames parks the car in a spot that's nearly half a city block away and jogs back to the entrance, careful not to muss his hair or suit too badly. Luckily, both the ceremony and party are set to take place in the same building. He'll only have to worry about parking once tonight. As he passes the rows of cars, he notices the same silver car from earlier, the driver still sitting inside. Again, Eames is thankful to not be the only one running behind schedule.<p>

Once finally inside, Eames asks the doorman for directions to the backstage area. He manages to end up in a dead-end hallway once, but quickly realizes his mistake and finally emerges backstage.

"About time," Mal playfully chides. "We thought maybe you'd ditched us and gone somewhere else."

"Oh, you know I could never find better company in this town than right here," Eames says, looking around the space they're in before adding, "Where's Arthur?"

"Restroom," Dom answers. "We've got about fifteen minutes, according to one of the stagehand people, if you want to see what's going on in that poor boy's head. I've never seen him so nervous."

Eames wonders briefly if Arthur is shaken by the same thing Eames is: potential. Once this is over, once their project is completely finished, there's nothing to keep them apart. Just the thought is enough to make Eames feel queasy, but in a mostly good way_. Add a good dose of stage fright on top of that… no wonder Arthur isn't feeling on top of his game_, Eames muses as he makes his way back to the dead-end hallway he wandered upon earlier. Here he saw restroom signs, and he hopes that he's found the one that Arthur is seeking refuge in.

Eames is pretty sure that he has indeed found the correct bathroom when he hears retching from one of the stalls and sees the soles of a familiar pair of size ten dress loafers peeking out from beneath the door.

"Arthur. It's Eames. Are you alright?"

His only answer is another retch and a splash in the toilet bowl, followed by a round of mild coughing.

"I'll take that as a no."

One of the shoes suddenly disappears, and the other slowly follows suit. A moment later, the door swings open, and Arthur steps out of the stall, knees dusty and eyes watering. He makes his way to the sink, still not speaking, and uses the paper towels Eames is offering to dry his face after he gargles, spits, and splashes himself with cold water.

"I'm scared, Eames," Arthur finally says. His hands are on either side of the sink and he's leaning forward, eyes on the marble.

"Arthur," Eames begins. He turns from where he's leaning against the counter so that he faces Arthur, who still won't meet his gaze. "We'll be right there beside you. It's going to be nothing. Absolutely noth-"

"Not about that," Arthur replies. He lifts his gaze to meet Eames's. "About you and me. About _us_."

They simply stare at each other for a moment before Eames breaks the silence.

"I'm scared, too," Eames says. He reaches out and places a hand over one of Arthur's.

"Don't say that just to make me feel better," Arthur says, subtly pulling his hand out from beneath Eames's as he turns to stare at the countertop.

"I'm not, Arthur," Eames replies, placing his hand atop Arthur's once more. "What if we ruin everything we've had these past three years? What if the real thing doesn't live up to our expectations?"

"And what if it was all for nothing?" Arthur turns away from the sink and towards Eames, mere inches between them now. Somehow, this distance is even more electrifying than touching hands.

"I've thought about it all, too. Many nights when everyone thought that I was fretting over the job…," Eames trails off. There's silence for a moment, and then, "But it won't be a failure, Arthur. It couldn't be. We won't let it."

Eames pulls Arthur closer so that their chests are touching, and when Arthur doesn't pull away, Eames breathes a sigh of relief. But as soon as he sighs, he isn't breathing at all, because Arthur is closing what little distance lies between their lips, and everything Eames has ever dreamed of is finally coming true. But just before their lips touch, just as Eames can feel Arthur's breath on his face, a knock at the door makes them both jump backward.

Dom sticks his head into the room to find Arthur adjusting his beret once more and Eames pacing slowly in the tiny space between the sinks and the stalls.

"Two minutes till show time, boys. Let's go," he nearly shouts, oblivious to the scene he's just interrupted.

"Always something," Eames sighs, attempting a smile as Dom leaves once more, nearly strutting down the hallway in his excitement. At least Dom didn't catch them in the act. Eames supposes that is a good thing, though his heart is still beating wildly as he holds the door open for Arthur and then follows the man back into the poorly-lit corridor and towards the stage.

"Always something," Eames can hear Arthur echo as the bathroom door shuts behind them.


End file.
